


loser takes all

by psikeval



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Begging, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Toys, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kink meme prompt: “Aramis loses a bet against his lovers and has to keep a wooden toy inside his arse – and they’ve just been sent on a mission, which means a whole day on horseback.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	loser takes all

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt can be found [here](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=553222#cmt553222).
> 
> Heads-up for wildly unrealistic depictions of sex toys, horseback riding, the limits of human stamina and — just, everything, okay, all of it. We know why we’re here.

\--

He had no way of knowing that Bernard would win the bout. Bernard is an idiot. Bernard has been making empty claims to soothe his ego ever since he lost a month’s earnings, _years ago_ , when Porthos first shot a melon from Aramis’ head. Certainly better men than he have begrudged Aramis his survival, but no other has found the need to be quite so overbearing about it.

So when Bernard insisted he would win against Pierre in a bare-handed match, Aramis had scoffed. When Athos had, with every appearance of idleness, bet that this time Bernard would be lucky, Aramis hadn’t hesitated even a moment before contradicting him. When Porthos (the traitor) took Athos’ side, saying nobody could lose every time, Aramis maintained that some men could, and if they both wanted to lose a wager he’d be happy to oblige them. He’d even left the terms open, saying that if he lost he would submit to their judgment entirely.

It seems Bernard had been practicing.

And when he emerged the victor, Aramis saw the look his lovers exchanged, like a trap had been set and sprung with perfect precision, and it occurred to him that perhaps he’d spoken rashly.

They’d spent the whole evening refusing to share their plans with Aramis (which did very little to assuage his feelings of foreboding) and exchanging meaningful looks that excluded him entirely (which just made him generally sullen). So all things considered, Aramis is having a much better morning than expected — that is to say he’s naked and flat on his back in bed, with Porthos stretching him open while Athos prepares their … penalty.

It’s an object he’s never seen before, though its purpose seems self-evident. The wood is carved into a phallic shape, sanded smooth and polished, flared at one end — smaller than either of his lovers’ cocks, and shorter, but, Aramis can’t help thinking, rather large enough to make an impression. He wonders where on earth they got it, and cranes his neck to get a better look.

“When I said I would submit to your judgment, I wasn’t quite imagining splinters.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Athos says shortly, smearing oil over the surface of the toy. “It’s covered in resin, entirely smooth. The goal of this is hardly to cause you pain.”

“I— I see.” He swallows and takes a steadying breath as Porthos’ fingers rub in just the right place, slow and deliberate. “And instead, the goal is…?”

There are times when Athos’ smile is truly unnerving. “Quite the opposite.”

It’s all the explanation he offers before coming closer. “If I may,” he murmurs to Porthos, polite formality in odd contrast with the gleaming-slick object in his hands. Porthos moves aside and takes Aramis’ knee, holding it up and baring him more fully for Athos to do as he will. Aramis tries not to seem to disappointed at the sudden loss of the fingers inside him, but judging by the fond, exasperated looks his lovers exchange, he hasn’t been particularly successful.

Because Athos is quite as conscientious a lover as Porthos, if rarely so gentle, he conducts a quick assessment of Porthos’ preparations, two fingers inserted, spread and withdrawn slippery with oil before Aramis can think of a single smart remark. It appears he’s loosened enough to pass muster, because Athos takes hold of Aramis’ other knee, spreading his legs still further, and then a blunt and unfamiliar object nudges firmly against his entrance, and deeper. The toy has a coating smooth as glass, but a few curves and imperfections remain that rub at Aramis in fascinating ways as Athos starts pushing it in.

“I’ll have to send Bernard my thanks,” he remarks, grinning, with only the slightest catch in his voice. Athos rolls his eyes and withdraws the toy again, rubbing the tip around and just inside the rim of Aramis’ ass until a choked moan escapes him and he strains in Porthos’ grip to push down onto it.

“Problem is, I want to fuck him now,” Porthos says, an idle complaint rather than a demand, and Aramis wishes he could believe there was the slightest possibility. He knows he’s spoiled, that others would happily settle for just one lover as attentive and enthusiastic as Porthos or Athos, and Aramis has them both. But he’s gotten used to it, damn it, and is unaccustomed to being denied—even if he _did_ lose the bet, and even if anyone looking in on his current state would be hard-pressed to describe Aramis as ‘denied.’

“He does look very nice like this, spread out for us,” Athos concedes, working the toy deeper and faintly smirking when Aramis arches his back into it. “Just think how much better it will be when he begs you for it, when the only thought in his mind is finding pleasure on your cock.”

The words wrench a groan from Aramis’ throat; by now his own cock is fully hard and dripping on his belly, untouched. Being taken by either of his lovers sounds heavenly. Instead this object slides into him bit by bit, teasing starts and stops guided by Athos’ fingers.

Porthos smiles, bright and predatory. “I could wait for that.”

“And wait we shall.”

“You are truly evil,” Aramis tells them, too breathless to even try sounding upset. Even as he says the words, the glint in Athos’ eyes lets him know they will be used against him.

“You see, Porthos, I was going to let him come.” (This strikes Aramis as a bald-faced lie, but he still feels a twinge of disappointment, as was undoubtedly Athos’ intention.) “Now I think I rather like the idea of him hard inside his trousers, waiting. Left to the mercy of this little thing.”

“Sounds a bit uncomfortable.”

“As befits the losing party.” The length of wood is fully inside him now, solid and strange. Athos passes his hand over Aramis’ cock and he bucks into the touch, biting down on his lower lip—close, but only close enough to torment.

It takes a moment for the full meaning of their words to sink in, and then it feels as if every inch of Aramis’ skin is flushed hot.

“I’m to have this— outside? Among the regiment?”

“No,” Athos assures him in the least reassuring tone Aramis has ever heard. “Better to say you’ll have it _inside_ among the regiment.” He nudges the protruding end of the toy for emphasis and Porthos laughs softly, shaking his head.

Aramis has no idea if he’s more aroused or horrified, and rather than consider it he rolls up onto his feet to find his clothes.

Dressing himself is an odd endeavor, more uncomfortable than anything. He can’t escape the feeling that he’s waddling around the length of wood when he walks, though after a few paces back and forth across the room, Aramis feels he’s nearly got a handle on it. Porthos looks him up and down consideringly.

“Can’t even see it, really, Well, you can see this—” He palms the obvious bulge of Aramis’ erection through his trousers, grinning, because he is _horrible_ — “but not the rest. You don’t move the same, though.”

Athos slants an eyebrow at them. “You’ve left him bow-legged often enough that I can’t imagine anyone will notice.”

“Oh, coming from _you_ ,” Aramis scoffs, unwilling to take all of this lying down. “I’m not sure you even got out of bed, the day after your little birthday celebration.”

“Once, maybe. I still have that flogger,” Porthos adds helpfully. Athos’ irritated expression falters and he busies himself tugging on his gloves, cheeks faintly pink beneath his beard.

A silence follows in which Porthos raises his eyebrows expectantly ( _three for me, then?_ ) and Aramis rolls his eyes ( _yes, fine, there’s no need to brag_ ). With his own score at a sum total of zero, he’s going to lose this contest even more soundly than the bet. It doesn’t seem right, with Athos so fair-skinned, that Porthos is the only one who can ever make him blush.

“And had I lost the bet, you might have use for it,” says Athos, equilibrium regained and more terse than ever. “May I continue?”

Porthos makes an innocent hands-off gesture to show that he wouldn’t dream of interfering.

“You’ll keep it in all day. You will not touch yourself, and we will not touch you. If it causes you any pain, let us know immediately and adjustments will be made. Do you accept the terms?”

Aramis considers this, intrigued. It sounds more like something they would do for Athos — rules, control, punishments, games of power and submission that ease the tension in his shoulders and the pain behind his eyes. Aramis has never considered participating himself, as the submissive party; he simply never saw the appeal. But a milder proposition, surrendering to the mercy of his lovers in this one small matter…

And it isn’t so bad. A little embarrassing, certainly, but no one has to know if he’s careful. He thinks of running drills in the yard with the wooden toy inside him, Athos and Porthos watching and knowing just what they’ll do to him later — yes, Aramis thinks he can accept this penalty very easily.

“I do, yes.”

“Excellent. In that case, I believe we’re needed in the yard.”

Porthos goes about shrugging into his uniform shirt and belt, pulling his heavy black gloves on last. There is a brief pause as he looks pointedly down at Aramis’ crotch, presentable once more without the distinct tent in his trousers. “That bored already?” 

“Tender thoughts of the Cardinal.” Aramis tells him with a wink. “Does it every time.”

He laughs at Porthos’ exaggerated shudder until Athos steers them both out of the room, one hand on Aramis’ neck and the other on Porthos’ shoulders.

They arrive at the courtyard without incident, though Aramis does rather a bit more stumbling and wincing than usual. Athos was right, however — he’s certainly arrived in worse shape, after particularly memorable nights, and it’s unlikely anyone will question him about it.

“You can always say you have a rash,” Porthos mutters, and Aramis reaches behind Athos to punch him. They fall in with the others and wait in relative silence.

“Good morning,” says Treville as he descends the stairs from his office, in the tone of one who will find nothing good in the day for several hours yet. “First order of business. I have letters here for the Comte de la Guiche. Nothing urgent, I’m told, but I’ve been asked to have it delivered by musketeers for added security. If there are any volunteers…”

“We’ll do it,” Athos says evenly, almost before Treville has finished speaking. There’s no need for him to clarify the _we_ , but Treville does look to Aramis and Porthos for confirmation.

The latter offers up a cheerful shrug. “Why not. I could use some fresh air.”

“Gnh,” says Aramis, too stunned to recall any words. He feels like he tried for a step that wasn’t there, the lurching rush of adrenaline as one’s footing disappears.

Treville gives him an odd look before visibly deciding that it’s too early in the morning to deal with his three Inseparables, and he’d much rather send them away. “Very well.” He hands the letters to Athos and nods to them all. “Travel safely. I’ll expect your return by the end of the week.”

The stableboy is sent to fetch their horses, and the musketeers around them begin training or disperse while Aramis stares at his lovers, who have apparently gone mad.

He is still staring when his horse, Djurre, noses at his shoulder in a bid for attention. Aramis pats absently at the horse’s neck and stares at his saddle as if he’s never seen it before, feeling quite numb. Surely this is a dream. Surely this isn’t happening, and he won’t be asked to—

“What are you waiting for?”

Athos is next to him, eyebrows raised expectantly. Porthos has already mounted his horse and is watching them with obvious amusement.

“I can’t,” Aramis swallows, helpless to continue. Have they forgotten, somehow? Do they not realize that Aramis obviously needs to get this thing out of him before they leave, that he can’t say so with everyone around them, but — of course he can’t go like this. Of course not.

“Aramis.” Athos steps close, stern and deadly quiet. “Get on the horse or renege on the bet.”

 _Dear god._ This is no dream. Aramis’ mouth is dry and his hands feel cold, but there’s no choice, really; he won’t go back on his word. He clenches his jaw, lifts his foot to the stirrup, and swings up into the saddle. Athos nods, satisfied, and walks over to his own horse.

Seated astride Djurre with his legs spread, the toy is pushed deeper into him. Even slick as it is, the pressure is—awkward, and Aramis makes the mistake of shifting his weight, trying for a better position. It feels almost exactly like when Athos had played with the end to tease him. Aramis makes a pained sound and instinctively tries to duck and hide his face, which only duplicates the sensation. He swears, rather more loudly than he means to.

“Trouble?” Athos, surely an agent of Satan himself, has now walked his horse over to watch.

Aramis takes two shaky breaths before he knows he can get the words out. “I despise you.”

They ride out to the bright sound of Porthos’ laughter, Aramis still squirming and swearing uselessly on the saddle.

He is a good rider — not the best, by any means, but certainly experienced enough, after years in the regiment. But Aramis is thrown off by the length of wood inside him, constantly aware of it with every clench and movement of his muscles, and has no idea how to compensate. He tries to find some way of staying perfectly still, but all it does is confuse his horse and focus his mind completely on the constant little jolts being given to the toy as they move.

He’s fully hard again before they’re even out of the city, biting at his tongue to stay silent. He’ll wait at least until there is no one around to hear before making the case that they’ve gone absolutely mad. They can’t possibly expect him to go on like this all day.

Then Athos slows and turns to look at him, the smirk carefully wiped from his mouth but still shining in his eyes, and Aramis realizes that is, in fact, _exactly_ what they expect.

Porthos looks back over his shoulder and, as always, reads Aramis like a book.

“Oh,” he says with a wide, knowing smile. “Now he’s gettin’ it.”

“In more ways than one,” Athos intones, because he is a horrible bastard.

“I—” His voice cracks on that single word because they are still moving, their horses keeping to an easy trot, and Aramis can’t be expected to reply under the circumstances; even the smallest motions of the toy are torture. He can barely keep his hands on the reins. “I truly—”

“Despise us?” Porthos suggests, all innocence.

 _Yes_ , Aramis means to say, but when he opens his mouth a far more embarrassing sound escapes. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad if he weren’t so _easy_ for it, or if they weren’t watching quite so intently, completely at their ease while he— when he’s nearly—

He reins Djurre to a sudden stop, shaking, so close to the edge of release he can hardly breathe. “Athos. Please.”

“Are you giving up?” Athos looks annoyed now, or bored, it’s hard to tell.

Aramis opens his mouth to say that of course he isn’t, he only wants—

He remembers the rule that he not be touched and is abruptly, vividly aware of what the rest of the day holds, that they want to see him come like this, brought low in broad daylight by only the motion of their wooden toy inside him, not once but again and again, until he breaks his word or they are done with him. He feels rather light-headed.

“No.” The word is surrender, and he knows they understand.

Athos nods. “Then we continue.”

Then the bastard slaps the rump of Aramis’ horse, urging him forward, and it only takes a few short steps with the false cock lurching inside him before Aramis comes, rocking and crying out and curling in on himself, holding on tightly to Djurre’s neck to keep from falling.

“Didn’t take too long,” Porthos comments, presumably to Athos. Aramis really can’t be bothered to pay much attention, because Djurre is still trotting along obediently, jostling him through the aftershocks. His muscles have gone slack, which only allows the toy to move more freely, slipping out and back in by just a fraction of an inch in time with Djurre’s gait. Aramis buries his face in his horse’s mane and groans wretchedly, because damn it, he has earned the right.

If they’d only give him a moment’s rest — but he knows they won’t, is finally and fully aware of what he’s agreed to. The best he can hope for is to hold as still as he can and let the toy do its work, wait for the next climax to be teased out of him. And the next, and the next…

He groans into Djurre’s mane again with great feeling. When that fails to express the extent of his suffering, he straightens up again, wincing only a little, just in time for the arrival of Porthos at his side.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, easily moving his horse into step with Djurre. “How’s it feel?”

“How—?” Aramis gapes at him for a moment, an incredulous glare marred only by his occasional rough gasps for breath. “How do you _think_ —”

“Tell me.” Porthos raises his eyebrows and Aramis has to close his eyes for a moment to gather himself. The success of this is debatable, as his world is reduced to darkness, the maddening presence of the toy and the smell of sex as come soaks through his trousers.

Aramis licks his lips and tries very hard to think.

“It feels — strange. Uneven. I don’t—” He breaks off, swallows back a whimper as the wood pushes just _there_ , wraps his hands tightly in the reins and tries to focus on that feeling instead.

“Keep going.”

“It’s — sliding — well, no, it’s— moves, but never—” 

“Look at you.” Porthos’ voice is warm, somehow both mocking and kind. “Can’t hardly string two words together, can you?”

Aramis would very much like to scream. “Please,” he says instead through gritted teeth.

“Please, what?”

“Anything. There’s nothing I can _do_.”

The ploy is unsuccessful; Porthos only grins. “Now that’s not true, is it? You can always rub off against the saddle there, no one’s stoppin’ you. Just a hands-off rule, as I understand.”

Aramis groans helplessly, low in his throat, but obeys the unspoken request. Fists clenched in Djurre’s mane, careful not to tug, he pushes down with his hips, rubbing against the smooth old leather. The friction through the damp crotch of his trousers is just barely on the right side of too much, so he doesn’t stop, even though it aches; it’s still too good to stop.

“That’s it.” Porthos’ voice is rough, intimate. “Gettin’ hard again already, ain’t you? Shameless.”

He can only make a garbled, pleading sound in reply, because if he wasn’t before he certainly is _now_ , with Porthos watching him rut against the saddle like it’s a sight he wants to memorize.

“Never thought I’d get to spend a day just watchin’ you get fucked. Granted, by a bit of wood, but it’s almost better, innit, seeing you bounce and moan on that little wooden prick and know you wish it was the real thing.” Porthos kicks out lazily and hits Aramis’ ankle. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.” His cheeks flush scarlet with the admission, but Aramis thinks there’s nothing he’d like better now than to be spread on Porthos’ cock, the heat and the thickness of it moving inside him, instead of the toy’s slow torture as it’s nudged by every jostling step across the countryside. Porthos’ eyes are hungry on him, and it only makes his cock harden faster, knowing what Porthos is seeing and how much he likes it.

“Move.”

“What?”

“Move on it, you know you want to. Wanna see you come again, like this.”

There’s no refusing a request like that. Aramis starts carefully, rocking back and gasping as it changes the angle of the slick, flesh-warm wood. “That’s it,” Porthos murmurs, and Aramis slackens his stance in the stirrups, lets himself be jolted up and down again— “Harder.” He hears a faint wet sound as the toy shifts, but it still isn’t quite enough, it won’t _move_ the way he needs it to—

“Gorgeous,” Porthos’ voice is dark, rough with arousal and it’s agonizing, hearing that without being touched. It’s the way Porthos sounds just before he bears Aramis down into the mattress and sets to leaving marks on his throat, adoration and possession twined together. Aramis stares up at the sky and tries very hard not to beg.

As if summoned by his need for a distraction, Athos slows to put his horse on Aramis’ other side. “Again?” he asks, eyebrow raised, and seeing the taunt for what it is doesn’t stop Aramis’ blush from returning.

“You know what he’s like,” says Porthos, teasing, but the rumbling growl laced through his voice goes straight to Aramis’ cock. “Can’t get enough of it.”

There is something damnably intoxicating about their eyes upon him, an audience while he jerks his hips and tries to find _something_ , anything to bring him over the edge. For a moment, he’s too far gone to recognize the sound of his own voice. “Please,” he’s half-whispering, raw and wrecked, “God, please, _please—_ ”

Without warning, Porthos grabs him by the neck and hauls him sideways into a kiss. The toy shifts sharply and Porthos’ mouth is demanding and warm, scraping over Aramis’ lips with his teeth and sucking at the tip of his tongue and Aramis clings tightly with one hand to Porthos’ shoulder as he shakes apart.

Porthos keeps kissing him, despite the awkward angle as they lean between their horses, until Aramis can no longer hold himself up and slumps back into his saddle with Porthos’ hand still at his neck.

“Cheating,” Athos points out lightly, always nearly as meticulous about rules as he is amused when Porthos breaks them. 

“Mm.” Porthos rubs the pad of his thumb over Aramis’ wet, bitten lower lip, grinning when Aramis kisses it gratefully. “Couldn’t resist.”

He pulls away, though, despite the shattered sound Aramis makes at being deprived once more. It leaves him with nothing but the toy inside him, ceaseless. His clothes are damp with sweat, sticky-wet with come, his legs shaking. The reins around his hands are digging painfully into his skin, but Aramis barely feels it; he wonders how long the next one will take.

The landscape around them passes in a blur, and the next thing he hears is Athos’ voice.

“Porthos.” It’s all he says, though he must make some signal or gesture as well.

“Break?”

“A little. We should clean him up.”

The words — or perhaps the way they’re spoken, as if he weren’t even there — send a hot curl of embarrassment through Aramis that only lingers when he’s coaxed into dismounting, shaky on his feet, and leaned against a tree by Athos to be cleaned off. 

He buries his face in Athos’ shoulder as the soft, wet cloth wipes over his sensitive cock, tries not to move too wretchedly into the touch even as it overwhelms him. By now Aramis has realized that the toy is not his penalty, only a source of entertainment for his lovers. The penalty for losing is to spend the day untouched when Aramis is always seeking contact, shamelessly leaning into Porthos and Athos for an arm around his waist or a hand petting his hair.

This time Athos is the one who’s cheating, giving him a moment’s respite from the rules, and Aramis kisses the side of his neck and murmurs _thank you_. 

Athos drops the soiled cloth on the ground and hesitates. Then he tilts Aramis’ face up with two fingers under his chin, making careful eye contact. “We can stop this, if you like. Make up a different penalty, or consider your debt paid.”

Looking at Athos, Aramis knows the offer isn’t intended to sting his pride and goad Aramis into continuing; it is sincere. He can say the word and be released from the agreement, and no one will hold it against him. This can all stop right now.

If only he were smart enough to want it to.

“And miss out on all the fun?” Aramis smiles, albeit weakly, and shakes his head. “Never.”

Athos kisses him fiercely then; there’s a low, teasing whistle from Porthos as Aramis is shoved into the tree. The bark is rough against his ass and the impact jolts the toy, startling a short cry from him that is muffled by the kiss. His bare cock, ever traitorous, twitches against Athos’ thigh.

Entirely too soon, it’s over, and Athos steps away.

“You know, Porthos,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “I think I’d like to see him sucking your cock.”

Aramis can’t help himself, he turns toward Porthos and knows that pleading is written across his face. It isn’t quite what he wants, what he’s needed since they worked him open this morning, but to have the taste of Porthos, warm and heavy and thick on his tongue—

“Nah.” Porthos grins at them both, wicked and unrepentant. “He did _lose_ the bet, after all.”

“Your judgment is sound.” The words are dry, but Athos sounds for all the world like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Your judgment is terrible,” Aramis grumbles, dropping his head back against the tree.

Porthos hands over his trousers, damp and a little cold but clean, and far too soon they’re on their way again, Aramis flushed and shuddering in his saddle.

The early afternoon hours pass in a blur. He gives up all pretense of keeping his seat and simply bounces along with Djurre’s gait, letting the motion and the toy inside him have their way with him. It feels as if he never quite comes down from it anymore, coasting instead on blurry waves of nearly unbearable pleasure. Time and again he finds himself clinging and shaking, broken sounds escaping his throat as he rides out another climax.

“I should not be enjoyin’ this,” he hears Porthos muttering once, but Athos only watches in silence, reaching out occasionally with a steadying hand to make sure Aramis won’t fall.

The worst part is that no matter how many times he comes on their toy, it isn’t enough—the pleasure is unrelenting but it’s hollow, a shadow of what Aramis craves.

His breaking point arrives without warning, unprompted by anything in particular. It is simply, suddenly too much — it has been too much all along, so perhaps he’s just been worn down; all Aramis knows is that he _aches_ and his eyes are stinging and he cannot possibly take another moment of this, let alone another hour, or til evening, or —

For half a second, his vision blacks out, and without giving it much in the way of rational consideration, Aramis throws himself from his horse.

He does tug on the reins first, and the tall soft grass around them makes for quite a nice landing, really. Still, it’s possible he’s made better decisions. Lying face-down on the grass, he hears a shout from Porthos, thundering hoofbeats that vibrate through the ground, and then—

“Aramis! Are you hurt?” He’s never heard Athos sound like that, and he can _feel_ Porthos’ worry like a physical touch, so Aramis rolls over as quickly as he can to reassure them.

“No,” he gasps, “not hurt,” and plows on before Athos can shout at him, because he thinks right now being shouted at might actually bring him to tears and he refuses to even _consider_ it— “I can’t. I can’t go any further, please, Athos—”

“Shhh.” Athos strokes back his hair with practiced, soothing motions as Porthos draws Aramis back against the solid warmth of his chest. “It’s all right. You’ve done very well. Here.”

He very lightly tugs at Aramis’ trouser lacings while Porthos holds him in a close embrace from behind, comforting beyond belief, face buried against the curve of Aramis’ neck. “Do me a favor,” Porthos mutters fiercely, “and don’t you ever scare me like that again. Don’t you dare.”

 _I’m hardly so delicate_ , Aramis wants to reply, but instead he just leans into Porthos and nods.

Athos hitches up his legs then, relying on Porthos to hold him still as Aramis squirms around even the smallest movements of the length of wood inside him. His fingers prod near Aramis’ entrance, cool against the overheated skin, and then he is grasping the base of the toy, pulling it out inch by inch while Aramis writhes into the sensation and Porthos holds him firmly in place.

Then it’s out of him, and Athos lets it drop to the ground, and Aramis feels so _empty_ that for one insane moment he nearly asks to have it back.

“Better?”

Aramis nods, flushed pink. He feels like a bit of an idiot for the scene he just made, but can’t quite be bothered to assure them he’s all right when Porthos is cradling him so securely and Athos is rubbing at the quivering muscles of his bare thighs. 

“Sorry. I suppose I could have asked.”

Athos’ mouth quirks slightly beneath his beard. “Yes. On the other hand, I’d say you made your point quite clearly. Porthos, if you would.”

As if it requires no effort at all, Porthos scoops Aramis up into his arms and starts carrying him toward the shade of a nearby cluster of trees. “We may as well stay here for the evening,” Athos continues, walking along beside them. “I’ll go and fetch the horses.”

In short order Aramis is deposited gently on the ground having been stripped down to his shirt and wrapped in a warm blanket. He is only vaguely aware of Athos and Porthos setting up camp around him — Djurre comes by to nose at his forehead, as if concerned about his rider’s odd behavior, but soon the horse settles into grazing with the others. Aramis doesn’t sleep, exactly, but he loses track of time, staring in a quiet daze up at the sky. It darkens by a few shades while he watches. Porthos comes over a couple times, pets his hair and has him drink water and some of the stew he and Athos make for supper.

All of this, of course, is quite pleasant. Wonderful, even. But still Aramis can’t help but feel that certain promises—or implications, at least—were made regarding what might happen at the end of his ordeal. Certainly, he ended things in a rather dramatic fashion, but that was earlier. Hours ago, maybe. And he may be exhausted, his nerves still humming with the exertions of the day and his thoughts not quite… in order, just yet, but he isn’t _dead._ He shifts a little restlessly in his blanket and wonders how the subject might be broached without sounding ungrateful or insane.

“Right, then.” Athos’ voice, decisive, and the sound of someone standing.

“Already?”

“I think we’ve waited long enough.” Because perhaps God is merciful after all, the blanket is drawn back in a slide of soft wool over Aramis’ cock; it seems he’s become achingly hard while lying there. The sort of thing he’d normally expect to notice, but his entire body remains a steady buzz of arousal, half numb and half floating with it; he only feels real, only truly _present_ , where they touch him. It must have been longer than he thought, for him to recover so fully, and they _still_ haven’t — Aramis whines softly at the reminder and looks hopefully up at them.

“Any other objections?” Athos asks dryly. He holds down a hand to pull Aramis to his feet.

He trips into Athos, eager but clumsy with a tingling sort of exhaustion that makes him move as if he’s been drugged, tilting sideways and bracing himself against Athos’ chest before he can fall. Athos sighs and his lips press against Aramis’ forehead, inexpressibly fond.

“Help me get him out of his shirt,” he says to Porthos, who obliges while Athos holds Aramis steady by his hips.

Athos’ fingers push inside him, rough and perfunctory, a near-perfect reprisal of what he did this morning. “Should be all right, but give me a bit more than usual.” Porthos pours oil into his palm and Athos slicks himself up quickly, tumbles Aramis to his hands and knees and follows him down. He lines himself up and enters Aramis without ceremony, one hand braced on the back of his neck.

Aramis nearly sobs with relief, pushing back onto Athos’ cock. Finally he’s being fucked in earnest, not teased by the shifts and jolts of the wooden toy, and he’s glad that it’s Athos this time—Porthos would be gentle to start, because he always is so careful with them—and it’s perfect, Porthos is perfect, but that isn’t what Aramis needs right now.

What he needs is Athos, holding him down and fucking him like an animal—albeit a very methodical one. He’s aiming not for speed, but deep, hard thrusts of his cock, the steady slap of skin on skin renewing the ache of the day’s riding; Aramis has already given up caring about the half-wild pleading sounds he’s making.

“Better, then?” Porthos laughs, but Aramis just gestures him forward impatiently. What little shame he’s ever managed to feel was worn out of him hours ago, and now he only _wants_.

With Athos on his knees and Porthos standing, Aramis has to pull himself up by clutching at Porthos’ trousers, but Porthos is quite willing to help once he gets the idea, drawing his cock from his trousers and making amused, encouraging noises when Aramis kisses it, nuzzles down by the base and savors the scent of him before licking at the hardening flesh, humming at the taste of salty sweat and skin beneath.

He can’t hold still enough to get Porthos in his mouth without fear of an accidental bite, so Aramis settles for mouthing wetly at the thick, heavy length of his cock, long sloppy licks along the head and sides, until finally Athos grabs him by the hair and holds him motionless, growls “ _Porthos_ ” in a tone that reminds them he isn’t fond of being interrupted. He gives a few more seconds for Porthos to slide his cock into Aramis’ mouth, both moaning their relief, and then Aramis is clinging to Porthos’ hips for balance, sucking with unconcealed eagerness and a rare lack of finesse, as Athos resumes fucking him. 

Most of his concentration goes into keeping his tongue and the soft insides of his cheeks around Porthos’ cock, but he doesn’t care. Aramis loves this, his mouth watering as Porthos pushes deeper, the drip of spit down his chin when he holds his mouth open and the feeling of being fucked from both ends, the obscene wet sounds when Porthos pulls back and only lets Aramis have the head of his cock to suck clumsily, bobbing forward with each shove of Athos from behind. And then, far too soon, Porthos steps away entirely. Aramis whines at the loss, straining forward as best he can with Athos holding his hips.

“Christ,” Porthos groans, moving further out of reach. “He’s a menace.”

“You’ll have him soon enough,” Athos promises, breathless and wry just before his pace quickens into brutal, near-frantic shoves of his hips and he comes, panting harshly, draped over Aramis’ back. Then he wraps a hand around Aramis, who can hardly help the way he spills over Athos’ hand after only a few strokes — he’s only grateful he didn’t come the moment he had both of them filling him up so perfectly.

Athos pulls out, flops onto his back just next to Aramis, and they both stay there catching their breath until Athos turns his head to look at Porthos. “Your turn, I believe.”

There’s no chance of Aramis forming so many words; he’s not sure he can move his own limbs unassisted, let alone speak, but he nods his head, slowly, with a hum that’s meant to show he agrees, that Porthos should absolutely fuck him without delay. Porthos swears vividly but Aramis hears his belt unfastened, his boots being toed off, and then the heated length of Porthos’ cock brushing his thigh as he kneels behind Aramis, positioning himself.

And Aramis may be wrung out beyond belief, too spent to keep his eyes open, but he still groans in pleasure when Porthos slowly pushes into him. He feels as if he’s waited a small eternity for this, and now he can just—let go. Porthos will take care of him.

“Yeah,” Porthos says softly as he rocks in and out, certain of his welcome but amazed as well, like he can’t quite believe that Aramis is real. “You like that, don’t you. Shoulda seen yourself when Athos fucked you. Gorgeous little slut for us.”

 _For you, yes. Always._ “Yes.”

Aramis doesn’t usually like to be called names during sex — won’t be bothered if it’s what a lover wants, but never seeks it out himself. This feels different. It isn’t the insult he responds to, not the word, but the half-worshipful tone in which it’s said, and knowing that in a way it’s true; he would be that for them. He would be _anything_ for them.

He thinks, now and in more lucid moments, that he will never in his life have enough of them.

Normally Porthos needs to be careful at the start, but Aramis is so well-used already, a mess of slippery oil and Athos’ come, muscles lax with exhaustion, his own spit coating Porthos’ cock—there’s only a bit of a stretch, and Aramis is barely alert enough to take notice. He’d happily accept a more punishing pace; if Porthos is gentle now, it is only because he wants to be.

“You wanna come again?” he asks, and Aramis doesn’t know, doesn’t think he possibly can, even though every roll of Porthos’ hips has him moaning and seeing sparks behind his eyelids.

“Good god,” Athos drawls, “how many times has it been?”

“Six?”

“Couldn’t say. I’ve lost count.”

“Greedy, in’ne? Christ, I could watch him with that thing in ’im all day.”

“Personally, I’d rather watch this,” says Athos, sated into a careless, lazy honesty. “Never ceases to amaze me, how much he can take. How desperate he is for it.”

“Yeah.” Porthos’ hand, big and warm, stroking up and down his back. “Beautiful.” (A glow of pride, golden and soothing; he is good, he is loved.) “Somethin’ tells me he’s almost done.”

Aramis couldn’t possibly be called upon to have an opinion. His body feels stripped down to nothing but raw sensation, half exhausted and half aroused beyond anything he’s ever felt. He doesn’t want to come down from it, could happily stay like this for as long as they care to make use of him. He would very much like for them to never stop touching him again.

“C’mere,” Porthos murmurs in his ear, scooping Aramis up and shifting them until Aramis is positioned in his lap, steadily impaled on the length Porthos’ cock.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes, and knows Porthos is grinning at Athos over his shoulder.

“Thought so, yeah.” He lifts Aramis up and down with a steady, merciless rhythm, holding him close, deliciously huge from this angle and everything the toy denied Aramis all day.

There are no words for what he is feeling; he clutches at Porthos’ arms around him and sobs, hears a voice nothing like his own say _please, god_ , the gut-clench of pleasure building up inside him again so immense that he’s afraid it will tear him apart, he will die of it—

(die crying out, just like this, with Porthos inside him)

—he blacks out. He must, because next he is aware of being laid on their bedding with infinite care, light-headed, twitching and trembling—with exhaustion or pleasure, he can no longer tell. He reaches out blindly, the movement unsteady, and makes a soft broken sound of relief when Athos and Porthos close in around him. They are kissing his neck, his shoulders, his slack parted lips, whispering assurances, rubbing warmth into his skin as he settles back into it.

They sleep pressed in on either side of him, warm and secure, and Aramis drifts to the sensation of fingers—he’s too far gone to say whose—gently sliding where he’s slick with oil and come, idle curiosity rather than intent. His breath hitches, but he only curls in closer between his lovers, welcoming even as he sinks into sleep. He is good, he is loved, and they will keep him safe.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously Aramis spends the next day's ride curled up half-asleep in Porthos' arms, like wounded Frodo being carried off to Rivendell (except probably sorer tbh)
> 
> Bernard, whose triumph lost Aramis the bet in the first place, was borrowed from ["where there is doubt, faith"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1292527?view_full_work=true) by radiophile, with her permission. You should go and read it, if you haven't already, because it's amazing and so is she.
> 
> ***** NOW WITH A [CODA FICLET](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/8276647) BY RADIOPHILE *****
> 
> as always, if you need me i'll be crying on [tumblr](http://psikeval.tumblr.com)


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